


Hitting the Mark

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Or: thanks for the quarantine inspo Demi Lovato, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23686939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Once upon a time, Clarke Griffin was some kind of somebody. She had fans and a TV show and maybe a crush on her co-star. Only one of those things is true now.It's the crush thing.And Bellamy isn't her co-star anymore, might actually be her boyfriend if they ever get around to legitimate labels, but it's been years since Clarke was in front of a camera. She has no interest in a comeback. Until Instagram Live, an international health pandemic and her own idiocy all conspire to get her back in the spotlight.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 25
Kudos: 289





	Hitting the Mark

“They’re clamoring for you again.”  
  
“Oh God, please don’t say it like that. No one is clamoring for anything.”   
  
“They are,” Clarke says. “For that face.”   
  
Bellamy groans. “Even worse, babe.”

“Oh, you did that on purpose.”  
  
“It’s possible.”

“Deflections?”  
  
“Eh,” he grins, flipping onto his side so he can prop his head up on one hand. “Old habits or something. And you’ve got to stop reading that garbage.”   
  
“People are bored,” Clarke reasons, fully expecting the wide eyes she gets at those particular words in that particular order. “They want to be entertained by you and your social media presence.”   
  
“I have no social media presence.”   
  
“Well, that’s a giant lie. You better not say that in front of Raven, she’ll be personally offended.”   
  
“Please don’t talk about Raven when we’re still in bed.”

Clarke laughs, burrowing further under the small mountain of blankets and pillows she’s accumulated in the last few minutes. While refusing to get out of bed. She doesn’t really want to get out of bed. “It’s true though,” she presses, brandishing her phone like that will prove her point. It only manages to shift some of the blankets. 

And she can’t really form much of an argument when Bellamy’s eyebrows do that thing. 

The arch thing. 

The disappear slightly behind curls that are definitely far longer than they’ve been in years and she still hasn’t quite come to terms with all of this. Them, really. 

As a unit. 

That sounds far more clinical than she’d like it to, particularly when all of this has been so easy. Like falling back into something, a dream or exceptionally soft, if not even more metaphorical, bedding with very high thread count, and Clarke Griffin met Bellamy Blake at a casting call when she was ten years old. His hair had been long then too, curls she hated because she was ten and boys were still a cootie-ridden idea, but they both got cast on the show and grew up on the show and life just...kind of happened to them. 

He was her first kiss. On-screen and in real life, and she was there when his mom got sick and he was there when her dad died, standing next to each other during meet-and-greets and early call-times, smiling for cameras and magazines that always had the word _teen_ in the title, and it was very simple to evolve into a person who no longer resented Bellamy’s curls. And a person who was friends with Bellamy. Good friends. Best friends. 

For a very long time. 

Years, even. 

The show got popular and then the show got cancelled and Bellamy kept booking gigs, and when Clarke turned eighteen she decided she was done. She didn’t want the spotlight. She didn’t want the questions or the press or the ridiculously long hours. She wanted normal. 

She wanted to be normal. 

Bellamy sat next to her on the couch in her living room when Clarke told her mom. That made it easier to hold her hand. 

Or so he promised. 

And it kept going. Bellamy became something of a star, a TV show that more than one industry insider called his “coming-of-age party,” and then a few spots in movies that grew into bigger roles and _star vehicles_ and Clarke was there. For all of it, her hand tangled up with Bellamy’s, even when the headlines weren’t hers anymore. 

Because that’s what friends do. 

And they were friends.

For a very long time. 

Which was fine. Really. It was good and great and a variety of other vaguely positive adjectives, but then Bellamy asked Clarke if she wanted to come to a premiere a few months ago and his cheeks had gone this very specific shade of pink when he ducked his gaze. That hadn’t ever happened before. 

So, Clarke started thinking. Constantly. Analyzing and hoping, just a bit—because he might have been sitting just a little closer than usual on a different couch in a different living room, might have been texting every few hours now, and she might have been laughing more than ever, glancing at those text messages in between periods at school when she wasn’t technically supposed to be on her phone. 

His jaw absolutely dropped when he saw her dress for the premiere. 

Even if he won’t ever admit to it. Clarke knows. Just like she knows that the rumors started almost as soon as they stepped onto the carpet, bright flashes and shouted questions, Bellamy’s hand steady on her lower back as he directed them past reporters and fans. 

And she knows she kissed him first. 

For the second time. 

It’s much better than Clarke remembers — presumably because Bellamy isn’t twelve anymore and because they’re not surrounded by cast and crew and respective guardians, but also because he also looks pretty goddamn fantastic in a tux and—

That’s that, as they say. 

They ignore the rumors. The whispers. The social media posts and speculation. 

There are no announcements. There are no press releases. No official statements. Despite Raven’s pleas. Bellamy and Clarke had been adamant. They’re good. As is. As usual, honestly. 

They’re still friends, best friends. Only now there’s a hell of a lot more kissing and liking each other and Clarke has, admittedly, started thinking a few other things recently, but they’ll cross that bridge eventually because the last thing she expected in any of this was an international health pandemic or to get quarantined with her very famous, officially unofficial boyfriend. 

And his eyebrows. 

“Lots of people are doing it,” Clarke says. “Famous people. They’re—”  
  
“—I’m not famous.”   
  
“Are you kidding me, right now?”   
  
“Clarke.”   
  
“Bell.”   
  
He huffs, mouth twisted and it can’t be easy for him to work his hand through all the blankets, but he makes an admirable effort and Clarke can’t help but gasp when Bellamy’s fingers curl around her hip. “I could start reciting box office numbers,” Clarke adds, if only because it will ensure that Bellamy flops back dramatically.   
  
One of the pillows falls on the floor. 

“How many pillows do you think you own?” she asks. “And you’re also a very dramatic man, you know that?“

“Must be all that raw, unfiltered acting talent.”  
  
“God, you’re annoying.”   
  
He flips his head, hair everywhere and there’s just enough scruff on his jaw to be distracting. “Luckily you’re stuck with me, so I guess that’s something you’ll just have to cope with.”   
  
Clarke hums, hoping the rush of heat in her cheeks isn’t visible, but that proves a pipe dream as soon as Bellamy taps a finger to the side of her jaw. “I own an appropriate amount of pillows,” he adds, “for a person with enough disposable income to be concerned about pillows.”   
  
“Did you pick them out yourself?”   
  
“It wounds me that you think I wouldn’t.”

“What do you look for in pillow purchases? Where are you buying these pillows?”  
  
“Should have gone into journalism, Griffin.”

She sticks her tongue out. He nips at her jaw. “God, stop that—c’mon, I’m serious. They’re just...I’m curious, and they’re very comfortable pillows. Solid neck support. Not too fluffy, or whatever.”  
  
“Fluffy?”   
  
“That’s an appropriate pillow-type description,” Clarke mumbles, as Bellamy’s eyebrows twist again. “Super easy to fall asleep on.”   
  
His eyes do a thing. They widen, all surprise and something Clarke can only hope is happiness, staying open far longer than they should — as if he’s a little nervous of what will happen if he blinks, but that’s also a fairly dramatic thought and Clarke clearly needs some coffee. 

The coffee is better in Bellamy’s house too. 

Most things seem better in Bellamy’s house. 

“Yeah?” he asks softly, and she really has to get up. If only so she avoids shouting a whole bunch of sentiment neither one of them are ready for. Maybe. She hasn’t seen any rumors about Bellamy’s dating life since they locked down in California. 

“Look who’s trying to get confirmation now.”  
  
Bellamy nods, shifting more bedding out of the way so he can crowd into Clarke’s space and her back arches on instinct once his lips start dragging across her neck. “Something like that,” he mumbles. “What do you have to do today?”   
  
“Aside from discussing your home furnishing options?”   
  
“I’m not sure we’d classify pillows as furnishing, would we? That’s like—end tables and bookcases and stuff.”   
  
She laughs. Constantly now, it seems. “How many end tables do you own, exactly?”   
  
“I’ve got absolutely no idea,” Bellamy admits. “And you’re still avoiding the question, Princess.”

It’s a very old nickname. 

One that started because they started, not quite as enemies, but certainly not friends and Clarke’s first TV role was playing the younger version of a princess. Who lived in space. On a spaceship. She had four lines. 

And for awhile, she hated him every single time he said it, but that changed eventually too and grew into something else and she’s still half convinced that her heart burst in her chest the first time Bellamy whispered it between kisses and roaming hands and—

“Still with me?” he asks, Clarke jerking back to the present and she’s actually starting to get a little warm underneath all the blankets. 

She nods, a quick sound of agreement rumbling in the back of her throat. “For the foreseeable future.”  
  
“It’s not the worst thing in the world.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“We’re going in circles, I think.”

“It’s because I haven’t been properly caffeinated yet,” Clarke says. “And I don’t have a ton to do, honestly. The studio art kids were supposed to be doing sculpture stuff this week, so I said we’d learn how to make some homemade Play-Doh, only we won’t call it Play-Doh to avoid any potential lawsuits.”  
  
“You think Play-Doh’s got spies on your Google Classroom feed?”   
  
“You never know.”   
  
Clarke feels his laugh before she hears it — warm air that leaves goosebumps on her skin and something fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She squirms when Bellamy’s teeth nip the shell of her ear, another arch her spine doesn’t altogether appreciate, even after a pretty fantastic night of consistent sleeping. 

Maybe she’ll ask him where he bought his mattress before she leaves. 

She doesn’t really want to leave. 

She’s going to drink a whole pot of coffee. 

“Tell you what,” Bellamy says, “if you get sued by Play-Doh, which I’m absolutely positive is owned by someone else, then I will pay your lawsuit fees.”  
  
“You don’t think Play-Doh is self-sufficient? Company-wise?”   
  
“That’s not the right terminology at all, but no—I’m pretty sure Play-Doh has some kind of parent company who’s waiting with baited breath for you to use brand-names and then sue. No thoughts on the offer, though?”

“We went from absolutely positive to pretty sure real quick. Doesn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence in your knowledge.”

Bellamy squeezes her hip, and Clarke refuses to be held accountable for whatever noise she makes at that. “What do you need to make do-it-yourself Play-Doh?”  
  
“Flour, salt, cream of tartar, some water, food coloring,” Clarke lists. “I looked last night and you’ve got everything, except for the tartar whatever and that was optional anyway. Plus, Google told me that I can substitute lemon juice, which you inexplicably do have.”   
  
“Prepared in a crisis.”

“Please, I bet O bought a bunch of things when you moved in here and you haven’t ever used that lemon juice. And I think you’re fishing for compliments.”  
  
“I’m trying to get you to swoon,” Bellamy objects, “there’s a very big difference.”   
  
Her cheeks burst into flames, Clarke is positive. She tugs her lips behind her teeth, the fluttering moving out of her stomach and up her throat and into the back of her mouth and that’s less dramatic than it is just kind of disgusting, but Bellamy’s eyes have also gotten very bright in the last few seconds and she really cannot deal with that. 

“I’ll let you know about any swooning potential if and when I get sued,” Clarke promises. “And I need you to look up the Play-Doh parent company.”  
  
“You’re holding your phone.”   
  
“Yeah, but I’m looking at other stuff.”

Bellamy scoffs, another line of kisses that end just on the edge of Clarke’s mouth. She glares at him. He grins. “Stop looking at Twitter.”  
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“No?”   
  
“Instagram,” Clarke corrects, and that gets her another eye roll because Bellamy may be famous, but he also isn’t all that great at being famous. He’ll do interviews and answers questions, but Raven runs most of his social media stuff and he doesn’t even have Twitter installed on his phone, is part of one WhatsApp chat that made up of their former cast, and none of them even know about this thing that he and Clarke are doing.

God, she hopes he’s not thinking of it as a thing. 

There are definitely better possible labels than that. 

“Which is how I knew that other famous people are doing live things,” Clarke continues. Bellamy’s lips have gone very thin. “You really don’t have to do a lot. Answer some questions. Interact. Give people something to enjoy for a few minutes.”  
  
“Did Raven put you up to this?”   
  
“What was that about being wounded?”

He grits his teeth — yanking in a breath through them, and Clarke does her best to stand her ground. While still laying down. She genuinely does not want to get out of bed. “It might not be a bad idea,” Bellamy admits. “You know—for the movie and...they’re releasing it on demand Friday.”  
  
“Bell, seriously, you can’t insult me like this before ten in the morning.”   
  
That gets her a laugh and a smile that could rival every single one of those cameras they’d faced when they were growing up, and it’s really not fair how good looking he is. Like, on a fundamental level. Bellamy ducks his head again, kisses the bridge of Clarke’s nose and the side of her cheek, just under her jaw and the crown of her head. She’s stopped breathing at some point. And closed her eyes. 

Which, really is just dumb. 

But then Bellamy is nudging at her shoulder and Clarke hadn’t bothered to put pants on the night before and—

She giggles. 

Like she’s sixteen. But with way better kissing ability. 

“You’re a tease,” Clarke accuses, not entirely sure when Bellamy wound up on top of her, but she’s not complaining either and most of the comforter is on the floor. 

“Swooning, babe. Honestly, you’re making this so much harder than it has to be.”  
  
She bites her lip. And eye roll three is a little more endeared than the first two, particularly when Bellamy rocks his hips down and Clarke’s breath hitches loudly and, if nothing else, the longer-than-usual curls make it far easier to push her fingers into his hair. So she can pull his mouth back towards hers. 

He doesn’t really put up much of a fight. 

And she’s not entirely sure where her phone ends up — much later — but now they’re running behind schedule and Bellamy makes coffee while Clarke showers. She’s still trying to figure out how, exactly, his coffee maker works.

It’s less difficult to realize he’s on the phone with Raven when she walks into the living room, hair still twisted into a towel and a different t-shirt on. Still his, part of a wrap-party gift basket with the studio’s emblem in the middle. 

The sleeves are enormous.   
  
“Of course I think it’s a good idea,” Raven says for what cannot be the first time. “Seriously, I’ve been begging you to do this for days, I don’t understand why—oh.” Her eyes land on Clarke, a specific tilt to her head that usually leads to endorsement opportunities and scripts. “Should I just offer to make a very large donation to your school, Ms. Griffin, or what would you like?”   
  
“Hardy har har,” Clarke drawls.   
  
“I’m serious. What did you have to do to get him to agree to this? Were there favors offered? Of the undiscussable variety?”   
  
“God.”   
  
“Shut up, Raven,” Bellamy hisses, but his head lolls, resting against Clarke’s side as soon as Clarke perches on the arm of his couch. Her fingers are in his hair again. 

That’s becoming a habit. 

She’s going to be really disappointed when he cuts his hair. 

“Absolutely not,” Raven says. “This is like—I don’t know, the Oscars and the Super Bowl and what’s something else that’s big? The moon landing. All rolled into one.”  
  
“The moon landing,” Bellamy echoes. “This is fifteen minutes on the internet.”   
  
“More social media than the internet. At least know the terminology before you get on, Bell. Do you even know how to respond to comments?”   
  
“I mean...I type them, right?”   
  
Raven’s answering groan could probably be heard even without the phone, and Clarke can’t help herself, ignoring the weird twist of her neck to kiss the side of Bellamy’s hair. That earns them both another noise. “No, Bell,” Raven sighs. “You can’t just type them. You respond. You interact. You give the people what they want.”   
  
“Told you,” Clarke mumbles. 

Bellamy growls, and it can’t be comfortable to hold his jaw like that, an obvious tension, particularly when that one muscle in his temple starts jumping. Clarke moves her fingers. Lets them card through curls and over the back of his neck and she can’t exactly see the frustration evaporate off him, mostly because that is not something frustration is actually capable of, but—

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, “I know I’m very popular and—”  
  
“—You’ve got that face, Blake,” Raven reasons, widening her eyes. “People like your face.”   
  
“People, huh?”

Raven points an imperious finger towards the corner of the screen, neither Bellamy nor Clarke quite understanding what she means at first, but then he’s laughing softly and she’s blushing again and it’s so stupid. 

In the best possible way. 

Clarke’s been sleeping better in the last two weeks than she has in—

Ever, maybe. 

She should tell him that. She should tell him a whole bunch of stuff, really, but she’s got to make Play-Doh and he’s got to cater to the masses and Raven’s smile has taken on an almost wolflike quality. She knows she’s won. 

“All I’m saying is you guys are over here living out monumental historic moments in domestic bliss,” Raven shrugs. “And while that active history—”  
  
“—That’s not how those words work at all.”   
  
“Stop it. My point is while quarantine has helped some of the rumors die down, I think you guys might be seriously underestimating how many people are very invested in Bellamy Blake, Hollywood elite’s dating life.”   
  
Clarke hums, sticking her lower lip out for maximum sarcasm. “Hollywood elite? Wow, you think you’d have cream of tartar in your cabinet, then.”   
  
“What the hell is that?” Raven asks. 

“I’m making Play-Doh.”  
  
“Oh don’t say that on camera, you’ll get sued,”

“Ah,” Clarke exclaims, swatting at Bellamy’s shoulder until he bites lightly at the side of her arm. “I told you! I told you!”  
  
“Hey, hey,” Raven snaps. “Can we get back to the point? If Bell is going to do the Live thing, you guys can shut up a lot of people with one moment. I think the internet would collectively lose its mind at the prospect of seeing both of you together.”

Clarke’s stomach flips. Her heart stutters in her chest. There’s a tightness just behind her right ribs that she can’t really understand because she never went to med school the way her mom hoped she would. 

She opens her mouth, not sure what she’s going to say when faced with the force that is Raven Reyes, manager extraordinaire, but then Bellamy’s hand is moving and squeezing her knee lightly and Clarke’s jaw snaps back into place. 

“No,” he says. 

“You don’t have to—I don’t know, do anything,” Raven argues. “You can just be in the frame together or do that thing you two do.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what thing?”   
  
Another finger point. This one somehow feels even more aggressive. “You’re doing it now. You’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve known you. Just, like...existing in each other’s space as if that’s the only place you belong. Even before the secret dating. It’s ridiculously romantic. Makes me a little sick, honestly.”   
  
Bellamy huffs again, Clarke’s pulse picking up and she really cannot be late for her own class. She’s got to start the video. “We are not secretly dating,” Bellamy snarls, and Raven’s expression shifts out of predatory and directly into pointedly judgmental. 

Clarke’s cheeks are never going to recover from this morning. 

“Maybe a little,” she admits, hoping the words don’t sound quite as disappointed as they feel. She’s not disappointed. She’s happy. She understands. Not saying anything was partially her idea. The spotlight is not Clarke’s anymore. 

She doubts anyone even remembers her. 

Whatever crack Bellamy’s neck makes when he snaps his head towards her is impossibly loud, even with Raven’s chuckle from the other side of the city. “Clarke—” he starts, but she shakes her head brusquely, forces a smile that’s honestly almost genuine on her face. 

“I do think you have a very good looking face,” Clarke promises. “And you don’t type your responses into Instagram. You just answer the questions. Like a conversation.”  
  
“So an interview?”   
  
“Oh my God,” Raven mumbles. 

Clarke’s smile widens. “You hold the phone in front of you. You tell people to stay home, stay safe, answer some questions about your movie and what you’re going to do next—”  
  
“—After the pandemic?” Bellamy interrupts. 

“Maybe don’t use the word pandemic out loud. That’s got a way of freaking people out.”  
  
“Anything else?”   
  
“You do this, get Raven off our backs for two days—”   
  
Raven gags. “—Seriously, are you guys just going to insult me for the rest of this phone call?”

“I make some Play-Doh,” Clarke continues, not bothering to glance in Raven’s direction, “and teach kids how to work out their worry about the world through art and then we open those Seagrams we got so you can watch more one-hour USA dramas.”  
  
He puts the phone down before he kisses her. 

That’s nice. 

That’s a whole lot of other words, but Clarke’s mind kind of loses its focuses as soon as Bellamy’s lips slant over hers — a practiced rhythm that feels new every single time they do this. They’ve been doing this a lot recently. 

In between episodes of White Collar. 

Bellamy inexplicably loves White Collar. 

And Clarke doesn’t think before she tilts her head, lets her fingers trail across Bellamy’s jaw and the side of his neck, trying not to fall off the side of the couch because she’s not sure she can cope with the inevitable sounds that will draw out of Raven. 

He nips at her lower lip. 

Clarke shivers. 

“Did you guys honestly buy Seagrams?” Raven shouts. “How old are you?”  
  
Bellamy kisses Clarke once more before grabbing his phone again, quick and a little searing, a guarantee without actually saying anything that she’ll think about until her third video period. At least. “The liquor store two blocks away was closed,” he explains. “And you know it’s not that bad, honestly.”   
  
“Yuh huh. Even the thought of the sugar content in one of those makes my teeth ache.”   
  
“Maybe you’ve just got weak teeth.”   
  
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve got. Ok, so are we good on Live? Just hold your phone up, smile a couple of times, let the girls swoon—” Bellamy glances meaningfully at Clarke, but she rolls her eyes and she doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on when she’s wearing one of his shirts. Raven ignores both of them. “—look good, promo the on-demand and then you can get back to acting like you’re a teenager sneaking drinks while your parents aren’t looking. Or whatever it is you’re doing while social distancing.”   
  
Bellamy’s lips twitch. “Are we distancing, Princess?”   
  
“Maybe now,” she groans. “Try harder on the swooning next time.”

“Honestly,” Raven agrees, “and we’ve got to figure out a schedule for this so I can promo and make sure people know you’re joining this century and…”

Clarke stands back up, grabbing her stuff off the coffee table, certain she doesn’t have to be there for the rest of this conversation. Bellamy tilts his head, something that almost passes as a wink when he actually has the gall to smirk at her. 

“Is telling you to mold young minds too on the nose?” he asks. 

“Yes, absolutely. And not nearly as funny as you think it is.”  
  
“Eh, we’ve got time to work on the humor.”   
  
“Stop ignoring Raven.”   
  
“Yeah, but—”   
  
Clarke kisses him silent, can feel the smile still tugging at the ends of his lips and it makes her heart do something else. Flip and flop and grow several sizes. “You, me, Seagrams, Neal Caffrey at four o’clock, ok?”   
  
“Can’t wait.”

“Good,” she says, getting the rest of her not-really Play-Doh supplies from the kitchen before retreating back towards the extra room she’s been using to stream from. It’s the most innocuous room they could find — nothing on the walls and no reason to suggest it’s anything except Clarke’s and she doesn’t hear Bellamy hang up the phone before she starts teaching. 

And she only thinks about that lip-nipping thing for four periods, so Clarke assumes that’s a victory of some sort. Even when she runs out of food coloring. 

It’s the green food coloring that proves her downfall. 

The door squeaks when she swings it open, padding back towards the kitchen and humming along to the music in the background and Bellamy must be on the phone with Raven again because he’s talking softly and calmly and—

Sitting at the kitchen table. 

His whole body tenses as soon as Clarke steps onto the tiled floor, her hand on his shoulder and it takes her far longer than it should. Even as Bellamy twists, head at a ridiculous angle and eyes wide enough that they take up most of the space on his face. 

A good looking face. 

A face that would draw several thousand people to an Instagram Live video. 

“I’m on,” he says, and Clarke can’t move. She’s stuck, frozen to a floor that isn’t even hers and she probably should have been worried about her own apartment through all of this, but this place is starting to feel like collective pronouns and mutual _something_ and—“I’m live,” Bellamy adds through clenched teeth. She might not be breathing. “Right now.”

Clarke’s eyes dart towards the phone he’s still inexplicably holding, a stream of comments and multi-colored hearts flying up the screen. Her vision swims, the kitchen spinning and she doesn’t know what to do, can’t form a single word and it’s very disappointing to realize that her flight or fight reaction is to just...stand there. 

Seriously, she can’t move. 

“Oh fuck,” Clarke breathes. 

Bellamy makes a wholly inhuman noise — a gasp and groan and laugh, all at once, head falling to rest on her stomach like there are magnets there. Or, secret relationships. 

Her hand moves again, more instinct and the sound of Bellamy’s laugh against her t-shirt, _his t-shirt,_ is almost comforting even as Clarke starts to read the comments in front of her. 

_Is that Clarke Griffin?_

_Oh my God, look it’s Clarke Griffin! What ever happened to her?_

_She’s wearing Bellamy Blake’s clothes!_

_Is Bell dating Clarke Griffin?  
_ _  
_ _That’s his shirt! It’s got to be his shirt!_

_Are you guys secretly married????_

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clarke chants, staying rooted to the spot. “Why didn’t you have a sign or something?”  
  
“It’s not exactly a studio setup.”   
  
“Fucking hell.”   
  
“Maybe I should have put a rating on this, though. I thought you were teaching.”

“Yeah, I am, but—oh my God, there are more comments.”

_Clarke Griffin is a teacher???_ _  
_ _  
How long do you think she’s been living in that apartment? _

_Clarke, do you think you and Bellamy will ever be on screen together again?_

Bellamy’s shoulders are shaking now, fingers curling around her hip when he looks back up. And stares at her. Like she’s the goddamn sun. 

And Clarke’s never seen that look before — from him, or any character he’s ever played, an honesty to the emotion that makes her breath hitch and her tongue feel like it’s growing a little bit, which is also an admittedly disgusting thought, but she’s a little worried she’s going to cry on Instagram Live. 

That would be a level of absurdity she cannot possibly begin to deal with. 

“What are you looking for, Princess?” he asks softly. God, she’s definitely going to cry on Instagram Live. That’s so dumb. He’s so dumb. He’s…

“Green food coloring.” Bellamy hums, his laugh obvious even when he twists his mouth. His phone has started ringing. “You should probably get that,” Clarke adds, “I—it’s, I didn’t realize you were...and—”  
  
He kisses exactly where his lips land, just above the scar from an appendectomy she got when she was fifteen and he’d sat in the hospital for fourteen hours straight so she wouldn’t be by herself. “How do you think I turn this off?”   
  
“I have no idea.”   
  
“Ok,” Bellamy mutters, slamming his left hand on the phone until something dings and Clarke figures that means it’s over and she has absolutely no idea what to do next.

She tugs her lips behind her teeth, biting down like that will help remind her that this is reality and not some dream brought on by really shitty alcohol decisions. “Bell—” she says, “I, I didn’t know and I should have—I figured you’d be in the living room or—”  
  
“—Raven thought the lighting would be better in the kitchen. You know all those windows and something about the sky.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense. I’m—fuck.”   
  
“You’re the most articulate person I know.”   
  
“Bell!”   
  
He hums again, fingers finding their way under her shirt, _his shirt_ , which isn’t all that hard because it’s definitely stretched out and a little old, but it’s also comfortable and soft and this is the worst possible metaphor Clarke can imagine for her relationship. That she made in her head. She sniffles. 

“Babe,” Bellamy sighs, tugging her onto his lap before she can even begin to argue. “C’mon, look at me.”

She does. And he’s doing that thing again — the eyebrows and the face and his hair falling over his forehead when he ducks into her gaze. One side of his mouth tugs up. 

“They all knew who I was,” Clarke whispers.   
  
“Yeah, well, you’ve got this real good looking face.”   
  
Clarke jerks back quickly enough that she nearly falls, but Bellamy’s hand shifts, flat on her back and her skin and this is an unmitigated disaster. Of epically ridiculous proportions. He tilts his head when she doesn’t say anything, nosing at her collarbone until Clarke lets out some of the oxygen she’s been hoarding. “Seriously, I’m really invested in your face,” Bellamy adds. “For the longest time and—” His teeth click and the color on his cheeks is a sudden and slightly unexpected surprise. 

“I am so glad you’re here,” he says. “Not just because of the rules or the social distancing or—”  
  
“—We’re not really all that great at the distancing.”   
  
The force of his smile could probably power several different light sources. Maybe the Universe. Clarke’s really thinking too metaphorically. “No, we’re not,” Bellamy agrees. “And I kind of always thought that. You know, I—even when we were kids and before—”

She bites her lip. Hard. 

And the blush in his cheeks makes the freckles there more obvious. 

Clarke starts tracing them. 

“That’s distracting,” Bellamy grumbles. “I—you’re distracting. In this overwhelming, great sort of way and I know we said we were going to keep things quiet because of the talk, but—”  
  
“—I think I might have ruined that.”   
  
“You didn’t ruin anything, Clarke.”

“No?”  
  
“No. Absolutely not.”   
  
She regrets her last exhale. Because her current inhale is ridiculously dramatic, glossy eyes and what might be actual joy working its way through her whole body. “Some talk might not be the worst thing in the world,” Clarke says. “Just—I mean, I know there’ll be cameras again eventually, but I grew up with the cameras and the gossip and I look pretty good in premiere-type dresses.”   
  
“Yeah, you do.”   
  
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Clarke laughs, still a little shaky, but even more hopeful. For what comes next. “And I think we can deal with gossip, right? I mean, I’m not worried about anyone thinking—”   
  
“—All yours, Princess,” Bellamy cuts in. She’s very glad she’s still sitting down. “From the start.”

Because he says it with enough conviction that Clarke is momentarily convinced her heart has exploded. Just by sheer force of emotion. And feeling. And—

“I love you,” she says.

Bellamy’s reactions are much quicker than hers. He all but flies up towards her, kisses turning greedy and hungry and a few other words that, in any other situation, would have a horrible connotation. As it is, Clarke’s pretty good with this version of the English language and this version of her life and it’s very easy for him to get her shirt off. 

His shirt. 

Whatever, honestly. 

And they do, at least have the wherewithal to get out of the kitchen, but they have to pause every few feet — discarded clothes and roaming hands, Clarke’s leg hitched up towards Bellamy’s hip and his fingers drifting lower and she gasps more than once. 

“I love you,” he breathes. Over and over. In the hallway and the still-open doorway to his bedroom, as soon as Clarke’s head lands on the very comfortable pillows. He repeats the words until they feel as if they’re branded on her skin, until they find their way into her veins and her muscles and wrap directly around her heart. 

Right where he’s always been. 

And the posts do come. On Twitter. On Instagram. Screenshots of the Instagram feed. They make Buzzfeed. 

Raven sends the link a few hours later. 

It leaves Clarke’s stomach doing somersaults again, but Bellamy just grins and shrugs and promises “let them say what they want, we’ll be good.”  
  
“Plus, we’ve got a pretty jam-packed schedule of one-hour USA Dramas,” Clarke adds. “We’re almost done with White Collar.”   
  
Raven stares at them for a moment, steady and appraising. Until she shakes her head and laughs. “Burn Notice is better.”   
  
“We’ll take that into consideration going forward.”   
  
They start Burn Notice the next week. After they get some actual liquor delivered. And do an Instagram Live video together, Bellamy’s fingers tangled up with Clarke’s or the other way around, while she tells several thousand people how to make Play-Doh. 

With green food coloring. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this weeks ago, didn't post because of who I am as a person, but now I'm waiting for people to call me back and be able to do "real world" work, so I figured it was as good a time as any to shove some more words at the internet. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed those words and I think you're lovely for clicking on them. 
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) where I'm still hoarding fic, talking about fic, wondering if the fic I'm writing makes any sense and missing sports.


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